The reaction strikes him instantly. Color bleeds from his face so quickly that it feels as if something vital has been pulled from him. His eyes widen, raw and unshielded, and his chest quivers with each breath he struggles and fails to control. He swallows hard, stepping back once, then again, his footing unsteady as though the name had landed like a blow.
I move instinctively, catching his arm before he collapses completely. But he jerks away, shaking off my grip, his eyes darting anywhere but toward mine.
“I spent years,” he begins, each word trembling, “yearstrying to bury that name. To bury her. I built my work, my projects, my whole goddamn life on top of that memory—and now you’re digging it up.” His jaw clenches. “Pouring salt into an open wound.”
“I understand it’s difficult. But you can’t erase the past, no matter how much you want to.”
He lifts his gaze to mine at last, and the look he gives me is drenched in melancholy. His head shakes slowly, but I push anyway.
“The best thing you can do,” I continue gently, “is talk about it. Don’t silence the thoughts—help me understand. What causes someone like her, a young, capable woman, to cross that line?—”
“Capable,” he interrupts, and the word cracks through the air like thunder. A smile twists across his face, one that lacks warmth. “Oh, she wascapable, all right.” His voice turns rough as he scrapes against the walls of the memory. “That parasite destroyed everything she touched. She tore through that village like a plague and left people hollowed out, haunted. Even now, they still look over their shoulders, terrified that her ghost might come crawling back to finish what she started.”
“The residents think the place is haunted by her?”
He remains silent, his eyes drifting down to the wet asphalt. The streetlights ripple across his lenses, reflections trembling as if the night itself is murmuring secrets meant for him alone.
“What makes you even think I know anything?” he snaps, the veneer of composure slipping. “I had nothing to do with her. My brother did—but only because he believed she could be fixed. The dumbass paid for that with his goddamn life.”
I don’t flinch, though something in his tone lingers—a bitterness so old it’s fossilized into habit.
“I need to know exactly what happened,” I push steadily.
For a moment, he seems to forget where he is. His eyes, dulled by grief and exhaustion, hold mine with a strange fragility. There’s sinking sadness there, layered with the faint shimmer of fear. His lower lip trembles before he catches it between his teeth, chewing it raw, the skin turning white from pressure. It makes me wonder how long he can hold it together before he breaks.
“Help me understand,” I repeat, keeping my tone low, coaxing. “Just a bit of your time. You don’t deserve to be alone in this tragedy.”
The line lands like a soft touch against his armor. His features waver, the tension loosening just enough for weariness to slip through. The anger in his face fades into something defeated, resigned. He exhales sharply, a man giving in not because he trusts me, but because he’s tired of fighting the ghosts that never leave him.
“This isn’t a conversation for coffee,” he mutters at last, raking a hand through his short, light-brown hair. “Let’s go to my place. It’s fifteen minutes from here.”
He turns abruptly, nodding down a narrow side street slick with rain. The reflection of passing headlights gleams across his wet coat as he walks ahead, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. I fall into step behind him, the air between us humming with something volatile—part anticipation, part dread.
A low vibration slices through the rhythm of our footsteps. I slide my hand into my pocket and draw out the phone. Its screen bursts to life, glowing sharply.
Jason.
For several seconds, I simply stare at his name, frozen and blank, while the rain drums lightly against my knuckles. Then, I press my thumb firmly against the button. The call disappears, the tone fading into silence.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and continue walking, while millions of thoughts scream inside my head.
The apartment sits tucked awayon one of London’s quieter streets, a place that seems to pulse to a different rhythm than the relentless city outside. The building itself is brick, weathered by decades of rain and wind, yet carrying a dignity that refuses to yield to time.
Inside, warmth hums quietly through every corner. Wide windows frame the wet street below, reflecting the city’s muted golds and reds in liquid streaks along the slick pavement. The air carries the scent of rain clinging to stone, polished wood, and a faint trace of cologne that lingers like a ghost in the hallway.
“Sorry for the mess,” Bennett calls over his shoulder as he moves further into the apartment. “I don’t have guests often. Or ever.”
My eyes roam across the room. The space feels like a living intersection of old London charm and modern calm intertwined—high ceilings edged with ornate cornices, a marble fireplace long cold, shelves overflowing with books and vinyl instead of ornaments. Soft light spills from brass lamps, casting muted shadows over sage-green and smoke-gray furniture.
A few T-shirts lie haphazardly across the couch, the only humanizing touch in a room otherwise curated with precise quietness. Everything else is immaculate: no empty pizza boxes, no scattered dishes, no lingering staleness. Just a perfect apartment, smelling faintly of careful solitude.
“It’s fine,” I reply, letting my gaze drift across the space, searching for some trace of Estella or his brother, some detail that might hint at the lives that once brushed against his. I settle onto the couch as he returns, two glasses in one hand, the other gripping an almost-finished bottle of scotch.
It’s clear how meticulously he’s tried to drown out his thoughts, how carefully he’s constructed this space of control and order.
The glasses meet the coffee table with a delicate clink, sharp and distinct in the quiet room. He uncorks the bottle and pours amber liquid into each glass, the splash of the scotch echoing while the low hum of the refrigerator threads through the background. He clears his throat, louder than necessary, pouring the drink to the brink. I resist the impulse to ask if he always drinks scotch as if it were water.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. His eyes flick up at me, a small gleam of anxiety betraying his nerves. He nods, almost frantically, and sets the bottle on the coffee table. I can already sense that this will not be enough for him, that he will need far more if he hopes to withstand the storm set to erupt within him tonight.
